The Psychologist
by Wisel
Summary: A short, baldy man with a brown tweed jacket comes to the hospital to talk to each and every employee.
1. Chapter 1

Doctors and nurses were running in and out of rooms, from the nurses' station to the copy room or running towards the elevators

Doctors and nurses were running in and out of rooms, from the nurses' station to the copy room or running towards the elevators. In the midst of it all was a short, bald man with glasses and a distressed look on his face. The man was wearing a brown tweed jacket, a blue shirt and a pair of brown trousers. In his one hand he tightly clutched a briefcase, and in his other was a crumpled up paper with _Dr Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine _written on it. The man's shoes made a squeaking noise as he walked across the linoleum floor to the nurses station.

"Excuse me, nurse," he said in a nasal voice. "Were can I find Dr Cuddy?"

"You're on the wrong floor," one of the nurses answered. "You need to take the elevator to the next floor, sir." The nurse smiled briefly and hurried past him with a journal in her hand.

The man wandered towards the elevators. Something must have caught his attention and distracted him, because he definitely did not see the man with a bad limp an a cane coming towards him.

"Watch it, buddy," the limping man said and continued talking to the brown haired doctor walking next to him.

The elevator was packed full of people and seemed to move slower than a normal elevator. It was getting warmer, and the baldy man's glasses started fogging up. He took them off and use his shirt to polish them. He adjusted his red tie and took a deep breath. The elevator doors opened, and in front of him was a much calmer area than what he had just seen. There was a glass door with silver writing on it, and he took up the crumpled note to compare. _Dr Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine._

The bald man smiled, pleased with himself, and tapped on the glass door. A woman he assumed to be Dr Lisa Cuddy was sitting with her head in her one hand, and the other hand holding a telephone to her ear. She waved him in, but continued her conversation on the phone.

"Tell him no," she said sternly. "I don't have time for this nonsense, House will not be allowed to perform any experimental treatments until I say he can." There was a short pause as a voice answered her on the other end. "Last time? No, no, you see, last time they almost _sued._" Another pause and Dr Cuddy frowned. "I don't have the time, and the hospital doesn't have the money to handle another one of his cases. The answer is no." She hung up and sighed. "I'm sorry."

"No trouble, no trouble," the man said in his nasal voice and smiled.

"How can I help you?" Dr Cuddy asked politely.

"My name is Edward Walters," the man said and fidgeted a little. "I'm the psychologist."

"_You're _the psychologist?" Dr Cuddy's eyes looked at the psychologist from head to toe. He was a very unlikely psychologist – nervous, fidgeting, seemingly insecure. "Welcome to Princeton Plainsboro, Dr Walters." Dr Cuddy smiled and shrugged.

"Thank you. When can I start working?" Dr Edward Walters' eyes seemed to sparkle at the mention of work. "I mean, uhm, when can I start analyzing?"

"Right away," Cuddy said and picked up the phone again. "I'll just page Dr Wilson, and you can get started."


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson fidgeted in his seat as the man in the tweed jacket looked at him over the rims of his glasses.

"Are you nervous, Dr Wilson?" Dr Edward Walters asked him in the same nasal, high-pitched voice he always had.

"Why would I be nervous?" Wilson snapped and stopped fidgeting.

"Well, for one, you're sitting like you have a stick shoved up a place where the sun never shines." Wilson suddenly became very aware of his unusually stiff posture. He wiped perspiration of his forehead. "Now, I'll ask you again, are you nervous, Dr Wilson?"

"A little bit," Wilson confessed and slumped back in the armchair. Dr Walters put his notepad in his lap, let his elbow rest on top of it and pressed his fingertips against each other. "You're not helping. You're supposed to tell me I have nothing to worry about, and that we're just talking."

"That would be considered a lie," the psychologist answered him. "Because, you see, I know nothing about you or your mental health. That is what I am here to establish."

"You're the worst psychologist I have ever met," Wilson said and raised his eyebrows. "Tell me what you see when you look at me." Dr Walters pursed his lips.

"I'd rather talk to you a bit," he said and smiled softly. "Now, before we start, do you mind if I call you James?"

"Does it matter?" Wilson growled.

"Yes, it does," Dr Walters said. "For this to work we need to create a mutual respect between the two of us, now that we have established that it doesn't exist. I'll call you Dr Wilson, if that makes you feel better."

"James is fine. Can I call you Edward?"

"No."

"Eddie?"

"No."

"What about Eddie-baby?"

"You're crossing the line, James," Dr Walters warned. "Your behaviour is childish and immature. I won't write anything about it, unless you act like this all the time."

"I'm sorry, Dr Walters," Wilson said. "I just thought we were creating a mutual respect between the two of us. It's impossible for such a thing to happen, if I have to call you doctor."

"I see your point."

"So, can I call you Edward?"

"No."

"Oh, come on!" Wilson ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "What are you trying to do, make me explode?" He started fidgeting in his chair again. "You call me Wilson, I call you Walters. Good."

"Dr Wilson, tell me," continued as if nothing had happened, "how are you feeling today?"

"I'm alright, thanks," Wilson said and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Really," Walters mumbled. "Never heard that one before."

"I'm sorry, should I tell you my life story up until today and then summarise what I feel like considering all that has happened to me?"

"Let's start again," Walters smiled.

"Lucky number three."

"I am going to ask you a series of questions, and I want you to answer each question without thinking." Wilson felt like a three-year-old, sitting with his arms crossed and a frown on his face, listening to another person telling him what to do.

"Shoot," he said and straitened his back and his face. _This man is going to evaluate your brains. Don't give House the pleasure to tell you you're crazy. _

"What is your favourite feeling?"

"The joy of knowing I have friends who care about me."

"What is your greatest fear?"

"Losing someone I love."

"What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up this morning?"

"Is House still alive?"

"What was the last thing you thought of when you went to bed last night?"

"Will House try to do something funny, or will he live through the night?"

"When you got to work this morning, what was the first thing you did?"

"I passed House's office to see if he was at work and breathing properly."

"I see," Walters mumbled and paused to write something down. "Who is this House-character?"

"A doctor at the hospital who happens to be a good friend of mine," Wilson said and shrugged. "He is cynical, in constant pain, addicted to pain killers and depressed." He paused briefly. "And you never know when he's going overdose on Vicodin."

"And you worry about him?" Walters said and put on a serious face.

"Of course, he is, after all, my best friend."

"So House is your best friend," Walters said and pressed the tip of the pencil towards his bottom lip. "What about women? Are you married?"

"Was married," Wilson said. "Three times."

"I see. What about children?"

"None that I know of."

"Why did your marriages not work out?"

"Ask my ex-wives."

"Do you think you have any responsibility for the breaking of the marriages?"

"I'm convinced I do."

"Now, let me ask you this; do you care about House?"

"Without a doubt."

"Would you say you love him?" The room was completely silent. "In a completely platonic manner, of course."

"Strictly platonic?" Wilson glanced around him, expecting House to leap out of a closet laughing any second. "Strictly platonic, I love House very much. Strictly platonic."

"What role would you say House has in the separation of you and your wives?"

"Well, none," Wilson said with a puzzled look on his face. "I mean, they didn't care much for House, but no one likes House. I don't think I like House very much, and I'm his best friend who – strictly platonic – loves him."

"Do you want to hear what I think?" Walters asked. "You won't like it at all, and it doesn't even have to be true, but I don't keep secrets from my patients."

"Go ahead and tell me," Wilson said and looked even more puzzled. "I already dislike you, so why does it matter?"

"Now, you told me that your first thought in the morning and your last thought in the evening is about whether or not House will live through the night, am I correct?" He didn't wait for Wilson to reply, but continued talking. "You also told me that you check up on House when you come to work in the morning, and in that way express your concern for him even more." Wilson pressed his lips together to form a thin line. "Then you told me that you love House – 'strictly platonic', you said. I believe that you, subconsciously, care about and love this House-character in a way that is not strictly platonic."

"I hope you're not telling me what I think you're telling me," Wilson said and crossed his arms again.

"I also believe that the reason that all your marriages did not work out is your love for House."

"Oh my god," Wilson said and shook his head. "Shut up."

"You subconsciously love House, not as a brother or as a friend, but just like you thought you loved your wives," Walters said and toned down the nasality of his voice. "You are in love with House." Wilson was lost for words. He shook his head in disbelief.

* * *

Wilson knocked on the glass door leading into Cuddy's office. He didn't wait for her to answer, but barged in. Cuddy was in deep conversation with a man in a black suit, probably trying to convince him to not sue or to follow through with his treatment.

"Dr Wilson, can't you see I'm in the middle of something?" she said.

"Your stupid psychologist just outed me!" Wilson yelled. Cuddy froze and felt her eyes slightly widen. Wilson was breathing hard; he had ran from Edward Walters' temporary office to where he was now. Cuddy blinked and looked at him.

"He _outed _you?" she said, her voice filled with scepticism.

"He outed me."

"Just to make sure that we have the same definition of outing," Cuddy said, "he said you're gay?"

"He told me I'm gay," Wilson said and threw out his hands in frustration. "Apparently, I just didn't know I was."

"Can he… I mean, is he authorized to jump to that conclusion after just one session?" Cuddy asked herself, bewildered. "Oh god, if he told you that you're gay, what will he tell House?"

"He won't tell House anything, 'cause he won't be around long enough for House to meet him."

"Wilson, don't start that."

"He said I'm gay!"

"I'm sorry," the man in the black suite interrupted. "Should I just come back tomorrow?"

"Could you?" Cuddy said gratefully. "That would be great, thank you." She turned back to Wilson. "You'll just have to deal with it. Go see another shrink that works at the hospital."

"I'm not going back," Wilson said and started pacing across the room. "I'm not going back to talk to that man again."

"It's costing the hospital a lot of money to do this," Cuddy said and stood in front of Wilson. "You're going back. It's only two months, it won't kill you." She put her hand on Wilson's shoulder. "Besides, I don't see why you're making such a big deal out of this. We all know you're not gay." Wilson sighed.

"Yeah," he said and sat down on the couch. Cuddy rolled her eyes and joined him.

"Please, Wilson," Cuddy said. "Don't tell me you've come to realize that you really _are _gay?" Wilson shrugged. "Because you know you aren't."

"Do I, now?" Wilson looked at her with eyes filled with doubt.

"Oh my god," Cuddy said and stood up. "What is this man doing to my staff?"

* * *

Edward Walters was a very meticulous man. It was very unlike him to let something slip out during a session, like it just had with Dr Wilson. He sighed and brushed some invisible dust of his shoulders. There was nothing he could do about it now. What was said, was said, and it couldn't be taken back. Walters was, however, convinced that the relationship between Dr Wilson and "this House-character" went deeper than best friends.

The office he had been assigned was awfully small, and very cramped. It disturbed Walters' meticulous mind that he couldn't leave anything on the desk without the room looking clustered. The smaller the room, the more tidying and organizing it needed. Two words shot through his mind and made him shudder; _compact living. _

Every day looked the same for Edward Walters; he got up in the morning at 6.30 sharp, made his bed with extra care, showered, shaved with a new razor every morning, and put his clothes on, the clothes that he had picked out the night before and carefully folded. Following the changing came the breakfast. Everything was done in a very particular order; coffee, eggs, toast, orange juice. It never changed, and it never would change. Work was something that of course never stayed the same day after day. Different patients with different stories, different notes to go through after visiting hours. After work he made dinner, washed up after himself and read a book. He then chose clothes for the morning after, and went to bed after locking and unlocking the door twenty-two times.

It baffled him that people wondered why he wanted to be a psychologist when he was obviously obsessive-compulsive.

"Don't you see?" he asked them in return. "Tidying is what I do best, so I might as well clean the minds of other people."

* * *

"How did psych-evaluation go?" House smirked as Wilson walked through his door. "Did the doctor declare you crazy yet?" He threw his ball against the wall and let it fall back into his hands. "Or are you just mildly insane?"

"I already have a headache, House," Wilson said and sat down in one of the chairs in front of House's desk. "Don't give me another one."

"Are you insinuating that _I'm _a headache?" House asked, astonished. "_Me_?"

"Shove it, House."

"Someone's pre-menstrual," House mumbled as a reply to Wilson's unsatisfactory answer.

"I don't know why I came here," Wilson said and got up to leave. "It's like trying to have a grown up relationship with a five-year-old."

"_It's like trying to have a grown up relationship with a five-year-old,_" House mimicked.

"See what I mean?" Wilson sighed. "Again; I don't know why I came here." He turned his back to House and opened the door.

"Because you love me, why else?"

Wilson froze for a split second. Then, he left.


End file.
